TOROJAN WOMBMEN

TOROJAN WOMBMEN

Toorojan Wombmen
have helmet heads

love licorice
(it is their
most guilty pleasure)

hate
allsorts

would send all allsorts
down to Poseidon’s locker

something fishy already
felt about the smell

Oh but the Achaeans
are coming
the Myrmidions are coming

loaded with logic
and rationality

their armour as
bad-bullet proof

as Blackpool rock
(so many cavities
in the fangs
you
are bearing

so much yellow enamel
in need of bleach)

BROKE-ASS

BROKE-ASS

came across a broke-ass poet

sort of all medieval minstrally meandering around

strange how the Carolingans also had their surrealists

                                                                                            just didn’t know it

thought that search for artistic holy grail

the most dubious pilgrimage,

most apeshit quest

of them all

and you have to be careful

                                                          in an age of belief

you cannot shake off

full-throttle God-rollicking

divine diss from place most

high

              you are not going to come back from

recovering in sanatorium

placed

                  on injured reserve

but

              here

                              in our age of sidetrack

no one

                gonna get

allow themselves to get
railroaded

                                                            so hopelessly
find themselves suddenly cast up on desert shore

fate worse

                                  than turning bankrupt

becoming the thing

your father’s whole being was

                                                                so well protected against

and yet

                      my dear saint, so grievously arrowed,

a smattering of suffering (dint

of raw chaos)

                                                                                        might just do the trick

to shoot you

                                                      to Olympus for

(statue, no statue) sweet consultation with Apollo